


look to the heart.

by vois



Series: between the ribs of menoris [1]
Category: Densetsu no Yuusha no Densetsu | The Legend of the Legendary Heroes
Genre: M/M, cw: lieral lieutolu, fallen london AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:03:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21540328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vois/pseuds/vois
Summary: The end days have arrived.To grant his king immortality, Lucile Eris makes a bargain with a starving god, and plunges his city into the depths of the underworld. It just so happens that none of this was ever for the man once called Sion Astal.To grant his king justice, Miran Froaude makes a bargain with a hollow god to learns the secrets of death both endless and divine. It is a necessary sacrifice, of course, to kill the man once known as Lucile Eris.To grant each other absolution, though. That's another problem entirely.
Relationships: Lucile Eris/Miran Froaude
Series: between the ribs of menoris [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552372
Comments: 8
Kudos: 1





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idola/gifts).



“Of all the men to tear the heart from this nation, I had not thought it would be him.” 

Froaude says it like it is a confession, some last great realization. Sion looks at him and knows that for him, it probably is. Froaude had likely never imagined that Lucile would do something like this, and has just as likely formulated an infinite number of increasingly outlandish motives to be analyzed and discarded, the truth never once crossing his mind - that would be, to him, the most absurd notion of all.

Despite everything else Froaude had accomplished, he had always been a bit… dense.

Froaude sits at his left. Before Lucile’s betrayal, he would have stayed standing. Sion wonders if, somehow, this affair has tired him the most out of all of them. 

Claugh sits at his right, and does not speak. He has not spoken since Reylude sank beneath the earth, into the heart of Menoris. Sometimes he will clutch his head and growl low, as if he can hear the god’s pulse around them just as Sion does, and as if it is giving him - of all things - a simple headache.

How Sion longs for a headache. How Sion longs to feel tired again, to cough from dust, to feel his bones grinding towards a halt. 

Not a stop. Never a stop. A halt, at most, because he would always rise again. He would always rise again, Lucile mocking and watching at his side, only now - 

“Perhaps I am an ungrateful king,” Sion wonders aloud. “I imagine that countless others have dreamed of this fate… don’t you think?”

Miran lurches up from his seat only to sink to his knees.

“Your Majesty,” he says, and his breath is a harsh and jagged thing. “Your Majesty, allow me to avenge you. Allow me to carry out justice on your behalf, far across the bowels of this sea…Your Majesty. I implore you, only give the order, so that I may seek out the monster Lucile Eris, and - “

Yes. Of course. Sion feels the hole inside him stretch, widening like some demon’s maw, as if it is hungry. As if it is laughing.

Yes. Yes.

“Execute him.”

.

On the third day, Sion opened his eyes. As expected, of course. Lucile had never once doubted that his king would return. 

He had gambled with Lieral before, when he was small and desperate and half-mad with future grief. He had lost, then. This time, he had been far too precise to let Sion slip through the gaps (and there would have been gaps, no matter how carefully he examined the agreement for openings. That was Lieral’s way of doing things.)

“Eris,” Sion - or perhaps that name no longer fit? - said, clawing up towards him. Clawing towards the sun. He looked, and sounded, half-delirious. “Eris, I need…”

“I am not your sweet demon,” Lucile replied smoothly, and greatly enjoyed the look on Sion’s face when he batted his hand away, their limbs almost flickering when they made contact. This deal may have been worth it after all, if just for that one moment. “And I shall not be consumed by you. Do you understand?” 

“Eris,” Sion breathed, his eyes flashing with a strange shade of gold that Lucile had never seen before. “No. Lucile. Lucile, what have you done.”

“A king should learn to be more exacting,” Lucile said. He stepped away, heart skipping an odd beat - how long had it been since he had a heartbeat? - as he allowed Sion’s fingertips to just barely graze the hem of his sleeve. “Otherwise he and his people shall surely be taken advantage of by strange and foreign policies.”

“Yes,” Sion said, “ _Yes!_ Lucile, stay and advise me! This is - ”

“My last gift to you, yes,” Lucile said. “The last words of advice you will receive from me.”

“ _Lucile!_ ”

“In all matters of Menoris,” Lucile recited, a strange smile pulling at his lips, “look towards - ”

.

“The Heart,” Miran said, tapping a spot on the map. Claugh squinted at it. Didn’t look any different from any other spot in the sea to him.

“In the records of those ancient civilizations,” Miran started, “that predate Roland and indeed, perhaps even Remulus - “

Claugh kicked the table, forcing Miran to lunge for the inkwell before it spilled all over the maps. That traitor Eris had been _generous_ enough to leave several archives of papers behind, most written and drawn by that _other traitor_ Lieutolu (and a number with the most obvious and distinct writing styles ever, why even bother with a pseudonym) which meant that none of them were trustworthy so it was all worthless anyways.

Or rather. None of them _should_ _have been_ trustworthy, yet here he was, helping Miran pore over maps and chronicles and even particularly amateurish field journals in preparation for his expedition north.

“ - and as I have explained in our previous encounter, all of the information thus far obtained by our scouts has been cross-referenced in these archives, confirming them to be genuine, and so we may extrapolate that - ”

Yeah, yeah, he _got it_. Claugh kicked the table again, and this time he was the one jumping as the inkwell rolled across the table and landed on the ground. 

Oh. Guess Miran capped it.

He heaved a sigh and threw himself back down in his seat. Miran didn’t even bother giving him that exasperated look he used to see so often. Everything was going _so well_ at the time so of course Duke Eris had to choose then of all times to drag the entire city into hell.

Not actual hell, maybe. Since Miran was talking about taking a shortcut through it.

“Of course,” Miran was saying, “it might be advantageous if I could encounter my ancestor, Halford Miran, there, or even the assassin and emperor he slew, but I shall not devote much time to the search unless by some stroke of fortune - ”

“Wait, wait,” Claugh interrupted, sitting up with a new interest. “ _That’s_ where your name came from? Isn’t that kinda obvious and also going to attract the entirely wrong type of attention in, uh, Hell?”

Miran gave him a look so acidic that he sighed and slammed his forehead into the map.

“As I was _saying_.”

Why was he even here. Miran could and _was_ planning this entire assassination joyride perfectly well on his own.

 _Emotional support, duh_ , a voice that sounded kind of like Calne teased. Claugh lifted his head up and brought it down on the table again, harder this time. 

_Yeah, right_.

Miran just kept talking.

.

On the second day, Lucile received a visitor. An inconvenient but most welcome visitor, for once.

“I have received concerning news of His Majesty’s deteriorating health,” Miran said, not bothering with any of the formal addresses that was typical of their station. It sent a thrill through him, even though he knew it shouldn’t have. But from Miran, not saying “Duke Eris” made him feel nearly as good as hearing “Lucile” from his lips would have been.

Perhaps. He wouldn’t know, and a creature like him did not dream, so he could not find out that way, either.

Lucile waited for Miran to finish with the monologue. It took him far longer than it would have taken, say, the redhead or his younger shadow to get the message across - or rather, Miran got the message across just fine within the first sentence but felt the need to extrapolate and explain and then continue the cycle, even though he might have believed Sion to be in mortal danger. It was so insensible and such a waste of time that Lucile found it… endearing.

“I understand your concerns,” Lucile very graciously allowed, considering that Miran was attempting to trespass on his lands and had engaged three squalling children in combat to do so. Then again, the sight of Iris, Arua, and Kuku attaching themselves to his limbs like some particularly clingy animals had been… _endearing,_ to say the least, as well. “But rest assured that our king is receiving only the highest quality of care, and that visitors may distract him from his recovery. That is not to say that you must leave, however. Your presence at this estate is quite unusual. Perhaps we ought to make the most of it.”

Tea, perhaps. Dango. He had observed his sister’s attempts at ceremonies enough to replicate them fairly accurately. 

“I would be honored to do battle with you any other time, but despite any risks that may or may not exist, I must insist upon seeing his Majesty. As I have already explained - ”

God but he’s dense. Lucile folded his hands behind his back and dug his nails into his wrist. He could just exploit his powers to get a little emotion out halfway across the nation somewhere, but where was the fun in _that_?

“Let us make a bargain, then,” he proposed, smiling just a bit… _more_. He had read in one of the books he got for Ferris that it made people lower their guard and thus become more agreeable overall. Lucile would not ordinarily expect it to work on Miran, but… well… maybe he just liked smiling at him. “If you manage to lay hands on me, then I shall take you to see his majesty… though, if it disturbs his rest, then I will leave you to the consequences alone.”

Was this what they called baiting the hook?

“Very well. Shall we head for the dojo, or would you prefer another location?” Of course, Miran would certainly have cornered a former student of the dojo and extracted the information needed to map out part of the Eris household. It was so cute how he wasn’t even trying to be polite. Maybe it was because they respected each other. Maybe it was because Miran might someday even trust him… 

…might have someday trusted him. Too late for that now. What a shame. Similar to how Miran only interpreted “lay hands on me” in the martial sense. There were plenty of ways to get physical without fighting, but Lucile wouldn’t have expected anything different from him anyways.

He wins their wager, of course. Miran fought as he usually did, no added desperation or particular ruthlessness behind his new, yet already familiar, tricks.

And what did that mean, if Miran knew he would lose and agreed to this deal all the same? What did that mean, that Lucile had made such a similar wager just a few days ago?

\- but he was a devil, and a traitorous one at that. And as a devil he had no ability to dream. But he would, soon.

It might be a nice dream.

“Allow me to reattach this arm for you,” Lucile says, cradling the limb from where he stands in the shadows. Out of Miran’s gaze, he can afford to press their fingertips - just their fingertips - together. Miran cannot see or feel it, of course. Miran will likely never know, and continue through life believing he understands all he needs to understand while remaining oblivious to this stolen intimacy before him.

“There is no need.”

“Allow me,” Lucile insists. This could be the last time, after all. The thought of it almost makes him want to add, ‘please’.

He doesn’t. That would be too obvious. That would give everything away.

“...very well.”

Ah, but Miran is merciful today as well. Lucile steps out of the shadows, holding his severed arm up with one hand in the crook of his elbow. His other hand dangles useless by his side, fingertips still burning.

If Miran senses anything, he does not ask. In fact, he doesn’t say a word. There are far easier ways to reattach an arm, and far less painful ways as well, but Lucile retrieves some stitches and sutures to do it the old way. The way he used to do after his parents were done with him and Ferris. He works to the beat of Miran’s breaths, lacing the barest amount of magic in, and activates it all at once just to hear Miran gasp.

Mm. There must be something in the air today.

There must be something in the air, because Miran stays.

Just for a little longer, Miran stays.

.

“You don’t have to send him to his death,” Claugh says. Sion lets his head fall back and stares at the false lights filtering through the stained-glass window.

A hero. A demon. A thousand years of misery. 

“He begged me, you know,” Sion says, patiently. “You were there. You heard him.”

“He didn’t _beg_.”

“By Froaude’s standards, it was most certainly begging,” Sion disagrees, and Claugh frowns and spits at the foot of a pillar. It stains the marble a strange, shivering color, and crawls up to the ceiling. Towards the sun. The sun that Lucile stole from him.

“Yeah, well, he’d beg you for anything,” Claugh says. “Doesn’t mean you have to play along with him.”

“I thought you didn’t get along,” Sion says, nearly teasing, but Claugh doesn’t play along this time. He strides up to the throne, leans over Sion and angles his head like he’s trying to tell what he’s looking at.

“That old legend,” he says. “You’re still thinking about it?”

“It’s not so old now,” Sion says. “After all, I cannot die. My blood is gold. Yesterday I received a diplomat from the true hell, one I remember creating thousands of years ago. The people are singing that the gods have returned, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I heard. Ugh. You’re starting to sound like him.”

“Who, Froaude?” If anything, Sion would think he sounds like Lucile now.

“Who else,” Claugh snaps, and makes a face like he’s preparing to spit upon the glass as well. Somehow, Sion doesn’t think that the glass would react well. Certain images have strange power, here in the heart of Menoris. 

“You didn’t have to tell him to go,” Claugh repeats, as if it would have changed anything. “Especially since it’s like this. Hell’s right next door, you said it yourself, can that monster even die? Could he even die in the first place? Shit, can _either_ of them die anymore?”

“There are ways,” Sion replies, “even in the heart of god.” Lucile had told him, after all. And Lieral before that. And even earlier than that, a stack of paper that he’d liberated from a prison while leaving its creator to rot.

Hm. Did Lucile feel like this right now? Or was it the opposite? Sion was familiar with the feeling of being dragged down and just as familiar with the sensation of soaring upwards. Now, he could go no lower. Now, he lived and breathed within the empty ribcage of a slumbering giant. Immortality, he found, was surprisingly restrictive. He could no longer go up, nor down - merely… sideways. Sideways through certain planes of reality, yes, but sideways all the same.

“You know Miran’s not coming back,” Claugh says, “so why did you tell him to _go_?”

Sion tilts his head back down, and looks straight ahead. In the distance, in the blur of color, he can almost imagine that he sees two bright faces staring back. 

Mother. Fiole. Am I doing the right thing, this time?

“It might be good for them,” he suggests. For Miran to finally stand on equal ground with… whatever Lucile was to him. For Lucile to finally stand amongst a crowd and not be the sole monstrosity. For Lucile to finally bleed and be seen bleeding, in the middle of that crowd. For Lucile to finally, because of Miran, _bleed_.

“Great, you’ve lost it,” Claugh grumbles, but this time he doesn’t disagree. 

Lost it? Of course he’s lost it. His kingdom, his mortality, the surface of his entire world. And yet, as gods and goddesses ravage the earth, his city alone is preserved.

Anything worth saving is also something worth losing. 

Being betrayed by Lucile Eris had been nothing less than his greatest relief.

.

On the first day, Lucile dismissed the servants and suggested to Ferris, gently, that she prepare for a very long journey. 

She gave him a look, demanded 50 boxes of that new dango special, and promptly fell over in shock when he actually delivered.

“It’s the end of the world,” he overheard her muttering. “I’ve got to get Ryner. It’s the end of the world.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell her anything. But he thought about Sion, upstairs, and Sion’s empty ribcage and sleeping face, and traced a finger over the hole where his heart would have been if not for that first wager with Lieral. 

It had been a stupid wager. Not because he made it, he would never regret making it, but because of who he had been when he made it. 

He wondered what it would feel like, to be Relux again.

He wondered what it would feel like to hear that name.

.

Lieral visits him the very day he arrives in the city.

Lucile shuts the door in his face.

“Come, don’t be like that,” Lieral sings. “I bring news, you know,” and Lucile opens the door again just to kick him in the shin.

“Ah, is that how you repay your benefactor?!”

Of course. Lieral would drag an entire city into hell, abandon his son in the crater that remained, and _still_ act the exact same way.

“Hurry up, then go,” Lucile says. Lieral pouts as if he’s a puppy rather than a monster corrupting cities for personal gain, and helps himself to tea.

“So, how are you liking it here? Must be nice not to be the only abomination on the street - ”

“ _Lieutolu!_ ”

Lieral rolls his eyes and reattaches his head when Lucile parts it from his shoulders. “What a bad child, wasting food,” he says, tut-tutting at the puddle of blood and tea mixing on the floor. “What if there’s a famine, Lucile? You need to eat now, you know.”

“Death is rarely permanent in the heart of Menoris, you made that more than clear,” Lucile says, gritting his teeth. “News. And get out.”

Lieral sighs dramatically and, for the second time since Lucile’s met him, opens his briefcase.

“That boy you fawn over, the one with the tacky ring,” Lieral says. “He’s coming to kill you, though I’m sure you know! Kids these days. Isn’t it just so romantic? My wife only ever threatened to kill our son, ah, it was _such_ a - ”

“If that’s all you came for then _get out_.”

“Ah ah ah! I’m being _helpful_ ,” Lieral whines, and seems to find whatever he’s looking for. He tosses Lucile a sheaf of paper, which Lucile doesn’t bother to catch or to glance at. It scatters over the table.

“Leave,” he repeats, and Lieral heaves a truly impressively put-upon sigh as he vanishes through the nearest mirror. Lucile had not been aware of that trick. It seems he will have to remove all the reflective surfaces within the estate tonight. 

But first, the papers. He collects them and they feel warm within his hands, as if they are pulsing. He looks at them and wants to scream.

It is a contract for the sale of a soul. The name is not familiar to him, but somehow he already knows.

“Ainelle,” he reads. The letters are familiar, but not in this order. “Miran.” This name he knows. This name he has read on countless letters and reports over the years, slinking through the palace, peering over shoulders. “Ainelle Miran.”

Lucile traces the signature. It’s signed in blood and burns hot enough to scorch his skin. He could wear it like a brand. Ainelle Miran. 

Despite the ink being long dry, he still raises his fingertips to his mouth. When he breathes it in, he can nearly taste it. It’s so familiar to him. This blood in particular, thrumming with shadows and the barest trace of his own magic.

Ainelle Miran.

“So that is your name,” Lucile says, and dreams.

.

The day that Sion dies, Lieral comes to him with a proposition.

It’s a sensible trade.

Lieral explains about the ancient civilizations, how many of them - in the face of the apocalypse - chose to deliver the pinnacle of their society underground. Or the city chose to abandon the empire it led. Or the society sold the city out for favoritism for the goddesses. The story changes but the facts remain the same, and the most important fact is that ribcage of the great god Menoris has been hollow for ages since a goddess with rather particular tastes had taken to it - she had, of course, been slain by the hero Roland, but not before most of the heart had been lost. 

“And his lungs and liver and - ”

“Enough with the song.”

The ribcage, of course, is a perfect place to house entire societies away from the light of day. Away from the eyes of the judgmental goddesses. The laws of reality are strange, there, just as they are strange anywhere in Roland for Lucile. It isn’t so horrible or unfamiliar, Lieral croons and coaxes. He doesn’t realize that he doesn’t need to sell Lucile on this, which is rather gratifying. Perhaps the man still thinks that Lucile only cares for Ferris and no one else, Ferris who is hardly reason enough to sink Reylude under the ground - she can do just fine against a thousand rampaging goddesses, especially with her brother by her side. Perhaps Lieral just can’t imagine wanting to save more than one person. He’s damned the world for one man already, after all. Lucile is not so selfish. He can think of at least three people he’d like to stay alive.

“Why me,” Lucile says. “Why broker this deal with me.”

“Because you’re familiar,” Lieral answers seriously, before adding on, “My pathetic, frightened little Relux.” 

Lucile seriously considers attacking him right then. Lieral might take his offer to another nation. Lucile wants to attack him anyways.

“What do you request of me,” Lucile says, instead, and Lieral smiles.

He hates it. 

He wants to retch.

At the end of the day, he has his answer, he has his plan, and he has Sion’s sleeping body in a room in his estate. It’s simple.

“You hollow out his ribcage, just like what was done to Menoris,” Lieral instructs him cheerfully. “And then you put this in!”

It’s a crystal. It’s a crystallized eye. It’s a crystallized eye far larger than any he’s seen before.

“...this will not fill up a ribcage,” Lucile says. Lieral winks and taps the spot above where Lucile’s heart should be. 

“That,” he says, “dear, darling, monstrous little Relux, is where _you_ come in.”

Of course. Of course. 

“Take your time,” Lieral calls out as he departs, “But remember! Ten days until the end of the world, and Sion needs to wake up before then! Ten days is ten days, you know!”

Ten days until the end of the world.

Three days before the resurrection.

Three lives he wants to preserve, none of which have ever been within reach of his hands.

What will you do, Lucile Eris?

Ah, well. What can he do, but this?


	2. if i shall hold on by your heartstrings

Miran began his search in Hell.

“It will be unlike any danger you have faced before,” his Majesty had warned him. It had warmed his heart to a truly unnecessary degree. His Majesty was no fool despite his idealism, his idealism which concealed his ambition and rookery, and so he must have known his warning was meaningless. That such kindness was wasted. Yes, he must have been well aware that Miran would not return from his mission alive.

No. No, death was hardly regular between the ribs of Menoris. In one piece? Even a man torn apart could still be stitched together. Perhaps it would be better to say that Miran would not return from his mission at all. 

At any rate, his Majesty was aware. His Majesty was aware that Miran was, in seeking out the traitor Lucile Eris, as good as abandoning him as well, and still showed him this kindness… but then again, his Majesty had never needed Miran to rule. Miran was simply a tool in the palm of his elegant hand, a tool to be handled delicately so as to avoid contamination, and then discarded… haha. Yes. This was good, for even in the discarding he could still be of use to his king…

So it was unnecessary for his Majesty to look at him and speak of the dangers he would face. There was no cause for it, no cause other than - dare he think it - sentiment. His Majesty had spoken enough of legends for Miran to know the sentiment was not for him, but his Majesty had  _ looked _ at him and that alone made it easy enough to pretend.

Miran did not think himself a particularly reckless man, but he could admit that he tended to ignore warnings. He had been warned before, of course, not to involve himself with Lucile Eris, just as he had been warned that Hell existed on a level that terrified even the gods themselves. But then, was Lucile Eris not something like a god? He had fought Lucile Eris, despite everything. A monster like him could even make Miran’s heart tremble. 

It did not prepare him for Hell. 

Hell made him shake.

.

Entering Hell was simple. The maps that Lucile Eris had left Reylude were, of course, accurate. He had confirmed it with the scouts, of course. An acceptable number of them had managed to return, and even if many were driven to madness their ramblings could still be of use. Miran's work was always thorough, moreso when it was for his Majesty's sake... but it was an unnecessary venture all the same. Having fought Lucile Eris on so many occasions, Miran felt he had earned the privilege of saying that Lucile Eris was more forthright than to commit sabotage through paper, along with the privilege of knowing it to be true.

It was unfortunate the maps did not extend to Hell itself, but the routes to the gates would do.

Two great beasts like winged goats stood at the gates he had chosen, and Miran approached them like he would approach any other non-aggressive adversary - indeed, this was the majority, for all but his Majesty were adversaries. He allowed his ring to flash and observed how their pupils swivelled with interest.

“Do you speak Rolandic?” Miran asked, and when there was no response, allowed himself a smile. “Of course, of course. I imagine it may have been millenia since you were stationed here. Then, perhaps an older language. Remulan? Gastarki?” 

Miran cycled through every tongue he knew, but their eyes remained fixed on his ring. They rumbled and swayed with every flex and flick of his fingers. Finally, the solution occurred to him.

“Forgive me for dallying,” he said, and swept smoothly into a bow. Had Grand Marshal Klom been present to witness it, he would have smacked him for exposing so much of his spine to an enemy. Would it matter to him, that the creatures had expressed no hostility? Of course not. He understood it as well. He too had come to believe that everyone within this world, other than his Majesty, was an enemy. If even Lucile Eris could betray him, then Grand Marshal Klom… but of course, he must think the same of Miran. Perhaps he believed Miran was setting out to report or collude, and that was his reason for trying to dissuade Miran from his journey?

No matter. 

It was a far simpler affair to summon his familiars, between the ribs of Menoris. Miran did not even have to call upon his magic, and the ring did not even flare. The subtlety it allowed him was appreciated; it would certainly make attacking Lucile Eris that much easier. Not to say, of course, that he expected an easy fight. Still, Miran would have to thank him. Even if such a development would have been of greater use in some other set of circumstances, where his Majesty’s rule remained over all of Roland and not merely this sunken city, Miran would thank him, even if it had to be done with a dying breath or at an unmarked grave.

As he rose, his familiars came to him. It was as easy as breathing. This time, they stood in the form of sharp-toothed goats, pitch dripping from their maws.

“Communicate for me,” he instructed, and they chortled and brayed. The creatures at the gates roared appreciatively and sank to their knees. 

Negotiating for entry seemed to take far longer than it should have. Perhaps they were speaking simply for the sake of speaking. Could monsters be lonely? How curious to think. Lucile Eris had never shown such indications until those final days, and it was likely a ruse to distract Miran from his true intentions. How long might he have been planning this?

“Pochi.” 

The creature snorted and stomped its hoof, before tossing its head back. It screamed, a sound that left Miran’s ears ringing, even though it had not even been in his direction.

The guards bellowed as they rose, and turned. They locked their horns with engravings in the gate, and began, slowly, to back away.

The change in the air was immediate. Oppressive. The stench overwhelmed him, a stench of metal on metal, of his mother’s blood pooling before steel bars. It was the stench of rot in the sunrise. The stench of a child, unwashed for an uncountable number of days, finally walking into sight of the sky.

And after the stench came the weight.

He was thrown - no, slammed - to his knees. Miran could feel hands crawling along his scalp, between the roots of his hair, blunt fingernails scratching at the place where his skull met his neck. He could not breathe. It was the humidity. The air was far too saturated, and he could not breathe for the humidity. Miran sucked in a breath through his mouth and it was wet when it hit his tongue, liquid when he swallowed. It tasted of - it tasted of - 

He vomits a black, bubbling sludge. He has not yet entered Hell itself. If he is already reduced to this, then how much lower shall Hell drag him? How much more pathetic must he become, to find his quarry? What must he give to kill Lucile Eris? To fulfil his last duty to his Majesty?

...but Miran was the one who had requested this. Who had come to life, despite being a mere weapon in his Majesty's hand, and thrown himself out of those capable palms in favor of something so ruinous as this.

He shall kill Lucile Eris.

He has no other choice.

"I shall be leaving you, then," he rasps, throat aching. If the guards believe he is speaking to them, they give no indication. His familiars stamp their hooves and drag furrows into the ground. Nervous. They are nervous.

But he cannot let them go.

Miran drags himself to his feet, clutching at a proffered horn to haul himself upright, and has his familiar assist him in crossing the boundary of Hell. He does not trust that he will not stumble and fall, and who knows what touching the gates themselves would do?

His head pounds like a drum the moment his foot crosses the threshold, but Miran has endured several hells before. Manmade and small, the size of a ten-by-ten cell at best, but hells nonetheless. He will endure this one as well, divine as it may be.

"Pochi," he coughs. Repeats. The poor thing huffs against his hair and starts shuffling its feet.

North.

And he shall find Lucile Eris.

North.

And he shall slay the beast.

.

Miran strips his cloak within the first day. It is a good sign, he supposes. Hell is allegedly cooler at the edges, so perhaps he is nearing the center already.

The second day, he discards his jacket. Even tying it around his waist generates too much sweat.

The third day, he cuts a strip of cloth from the hem of his shirt, and ties his hair up. The air of Hell is scalding against his neck, and Miran cannot for the life of him decide whether or not he regrets it.

It is another three days before he reaches a settlement. It is generous to say call it a settlement, or even incomplete, but such is the nature of things. Hell's geography is particularly unstable, a report had read. Any attempt at mapping the land would only prove futile, so even if he had the possibility of return, no one could follow in his steps.

As Miran draws closer, he realizes that what he had believed to be a small cluster of huts is, in fact, a single building, oddly-shaped rooms protruding like tumors. The letters on the sign above the door rearrange themselves, finally settling on 'INN'.

"Name," an entity behind a desk says, once he stumbles in. It is fiddling with some sort of device, one that seems to fracture the light, rendering it unviewable in the process.Miran would have thought a living, human visitor warranted more of a reaction than that, unless… no, he could not have passed through. And even if he did, the monster Lucile Eris was hardly a living human. Perhaps the device affected the entity as well, and it could not see him.

"Miran Froaude," he means to say, only it comes out as "Ainelle Miran." Is it a compulsion? A spell of some sort? Or is it simply a devil's influence?

"Huh," the entity says. "Miran, is it?"

It lowers the device it had been - polishing? - and Miran comes face to face with a dead man.

"Ryner Lute."

"Is that who you see?" the demon asks, unmoved. "Who you want to see? Shouldn't just toss names around, you know. Then again, it doesn't really matter, not like it'll stick." It pauses, then amends its statement. "Well, maybe a little. If it means the spell's broken."

Miran had only come face to face with his Majesty's… associate, perhaps, a small number of times. Still, it is easy to tell upon closer examination - this is not Ryner Lute. The eyes are slanted differently. The irises are redder. The cut of his jaw is oh so slightly sharper, and there is a scar more like a carving along the edge of his left cheek.

"What is your name, then, if not Ryner Lute? You do look remarkably similar to a man I knew on the world above, you see, and he had connections of a sort to this place…"

The man nods along patiently. The device he had been holding is now set aside as he gives Miran his full attention. He shows no sign of wanting to interrupt with an explanation, no matter how many times Miran attempts to prompt him. Eventually, he runs out of words. 

"You can call me Lied," he says, with a careless shrug. A lie. It must be, for he seems to be the master of the premises and would not be beholden to the same enchantment, if indeed it were an enchantment, that so compelled Miran. He understands, from his research, the power of names within hell. "Can't say I'm familiar with your 'Ryner Lute' specifically, but I've had my fair share of Ryners. Known quite a few Mirans, too." This… Lied, or so he claims, lowers his eyelids when he sweeps his gaze over to meet his. "You come looking for one?"

Miran had thought of it, of course. It would be useful if he could speak to the great Halford. To learn the secrets of this ring. But its full powers were unknown to even the eldest of the cult and many of its abilities had been discovered over the centuries rather than in Halford's original records. It was possible, of course, that the great knight had simply decided to omit the details for fear someone might continue the Dark Emperor's atrocities… but just as possible that he had never known. If anything, Miran should be seeking out the assassin himself. If only he had a name. Without a name, such efforts were likely to be too much a waste. He had an appointment with death, after all.

"...no. I have no interest in the others of my lineage," Miran said, finally. Lied merely hummed at him.

"You'll want to stay a few days," he said, seemingly ignoring Miran's reply. "There's a storm bound this way, after all." 

...yes, it stormed even here. The rain in the underground Reylude had become strange. Clouded with something both metallic and sweet. But it did not seem to do any harm other than provide exceptionally vivid dreams. 

"I do not fear rain," Miran said. Lied snorted.

"Not the god's tears, idiot," he said. "Even the gods can't touch anything here. It'll be pouring blood and guts and stuff."

Miran paused.

"Ah," he said. He could taste the air of Hell's entrance at the back of his throat. Then, "I have urgent business, I'm afraid. I will allow no storm, no matter how drastic, to delay me."

"Let me put it this way. I haven't seen a human in centuries," oh, there it was, "and I'll admit I'd like the company. Even if you talk too much. So if you stay, I'll tell you something valuable. Something useful, to you or that king or your… Lucile Eris."

Miran stopped.

"I had not mentioned… Perhaps you truly are a devil. Unless, of course, that device there is a Rule Fragment, one that enables the wielder to peer into the thoughts of his peers, but you set it down for the majority of our conversation… very well. I intend for you to reveal a great many secrets over the course of my stay. But information aside, there is much to negotiate…"

Lied laughed. In that moment, he was as good as identical to the man his Majesty had fought so vehemently to keep.

"For you, Miran, Hell may as well be free."

.

"What do you know of the family called Eris?"

Lied eyed him with some sort of judgement in his eyes. "Mirans shouldn't tangle with Erises, I know that."

"And yet I shall. So, tell me, what must I offer for a true answer?"

Lied looked him over. "You've got nothing of value to me."

"Oh? Perhaps I must learn to barter in the manner of Hell, then. Shall I offer - "

Lied walked away.

The next day, "Have you met any of the Eris household?"

"There's plenty in Hell, yeah, but they're too busy with their depraved tournaments to even visit the Embassy, what makes you think they'd turn up here?"

Miran was unmoved. "You are deflecting. I did not ask if one had ever visited these premises, only whether you had encountered a member of that bloodline. It is a clear indicator that you know something you wish to hide, so it is simply a matter of convincing you to tell me. Let me complete my offer this time. Runan doctrine teaches that above all else, Hell desires s - "

Lied slammed the door, this time.

He would, of course, try again. "The ties between the Erises and the rest of the gods. I would like to learn of them."

"Do I look like a god to you?"

"Demons, then. Surely they have ties to - "

"And do I look like a demon?" Lied's tone had taken a snappish turn. He must have touched upon a nerve. Or perhaps the man was merely growing impatient, but that would be far too disappointing for him not to press the case.

"Demon, is it? In your time aboveground, did the people of your society call you a demon - "

"You talk more than any of your ancestors by far," Lied muttered, and chucked a dishrag at him. "If you want to know at least  _ work _ ."

The cutlery screeched and tried to stab him when he handled it. The dishes insulted his mother. They had quite a nice chat on it.

"Which era did you originate from?" Miran asked, before realizing his folly. "During your time it is doubtless the people had another word for it, so you may simply inform me of the major developments and I shall…"

"I thought you wanted  _ easier _ questions," Lied said, disgusted, although Miran would assume most people found contemporary history far easier than interpersonal relationships. "Dust the rooms then come back again. And make up your mind on what to ask, this time."

Demons were said to be wily and all-knowing, particularly of the temptations dearest to one's soul. That was in the Runan doctrine as well. This specimen was rather disappointing, if it were truly so.

"How may I kill Lucile Eris?" 

"You already know," Lied said, "But I'm feeling generous. Come up with a better question so I can actually answer it."

"How may I survive Lucile Eris?" 

"You know that one too," Lied said. "Though it  _ is _ mutually exclusive with the first, and you know that too, so don't ask me that next."

"Tell me the source of Lucile Eris' power," he tried a more specific and slightly less strategic approach. 

"His name."

"...and what is his name?"

Lied snorted.

"You could clean all of Hell," he said, "and it still wouldn't be enough to cover that fee."

Miran considered this.

"Then, my sou- "

"Stop offering me your soul already! A name for a name. There. That's the best you can get from me. You want to sell yourself so badly, head to the Embassy!"

Miran looked at the windows. There were bits and gobs of shrivelled black entrails sliding down the glass, leaving trails of brown blood.

"I would set out, of course, if not for the advice you had given previously - "

"AUGH," Lied said, and chased him up the stairs with that device of his. It made strange, shrill sounds, whirring and sparking like some strange tune. He had nightmares for what seemed like an eternity after that.

.

The storm went. Lied had, in the meantime, seen fit to answer a good number of his questions - perhaps as an apology for the visions his device had caused. He learned that Lied's appearance came from the blood of the Lonesome Devil, just as with Ryner Lute. He learned the order in which the cities of Elemio, Latsel, and Ailuchrone fell. He learned of the extinct eyes and why some were revived. A thousand razor-edged shards and not one of them could act as a blade against Lucile Eris's throat. Despite what he had gained, Miran still felt as though he had far too little to show for his dallying. It was frustrating, of course, but he could not decide what vexed him more; the new questions he had accrued, along with their lack of answers, or the thought of Lucile Eris, lungs breathing and restored heart beating for a now increased number of days.

But Lied had made his offer, after all. A name for a name.

"Froaude," Miran said. "Miran Froaude. A name for a name. Do you accept this trade?"

Lied grinned. It was a lazy, ugly thing. It reminded him once more of how he had managed to mistake the man for Ryner Lute on the night of his entry. 

"Can't give you the name of that mark of yours," Lied said. "Not for something as small as that. But y'know what, I'll give you something for trying, alright?"

Before Miran could reply, Lied was preparing to whistle. No, not to whistle - he was pushing his fingers further into his mouth. The entirety of his fist somehow followed suit. 

Miran watched, fascinated, as Lied seemed to fumble about inside his own throat. Strange bumps and bulges appeared in his flesh, like imprints of - a key? 

Lied fished whatever he was looking for out with a wet, spluttering noise. He didn't bother wiping the thing off before tossing it to Miran. 

Disgusting as it was, Miran caught it. The man's saliva, unlike so many of the now-sunken Reylude, was clear. 

"This key, what does it open? I presume it functions as a name, based on the terms of our trade, but I am unaware as to any being that calls a key a name, unless - "

"Why do you never shut up?" Lied complained, showing no signs of strain despite the rather grotesque feat he had accomplished. An effect of residing in Hell, or a sign of an otherworldly origin? "It's just a key. The name should be on the head."

Miran frowned and wiped the saliva away with his sleeve. Despite it being clear, it stained his shirt gold. Much like his Majesty now bled, wept, and spat. He had yet to determine the cause of the strange colors in this lower realm. Perhaps if he did, he could send his Majesty an intelligence report, but…

Miran's mission was not to gather intelligence. It was to die in combat executing the traitor Lucile Eris.

"Feruna Lieutolu," he read. Lieutolu, as in the Duke. An ancestor? A closer relative, given the unclear origins of his apparent immortality? Or perhaps… but Feruna was not a common name among the lower classes, and hadn't Lieral caused a ruckus to marry a dancing girl? Or was it one of those adopted prostitutes? His deceased predecessor had certainly compared them often enough.

"A man's name," Lied informed him. How generous. "Among other things. My blood, for example. If you can find him in your travels, it'll be worth your while."

Miran's head snapped up. A Lieutolu? His host carried the blood of a Lieutolu? An ancestor of the Duke, then, but it did not explain his resemblance to Ryner Lute, unless - but of course. Lieral had some sort of hand in the sinking of Reylude. His Majesty had not so much told him as implied it, but that meant he had seen fit to include Miran in his confidences all the same. What did it mean, then? Were the Lieutolus also descended of a god, just as the Erises claimed? He would have to find a way to communicate this to his Majesty -

A hand landed upon his head.

"You look like you're planning something stupid," Lied said. "Don't. Let me tell you, the odds of you running into him out there are a million to one."

"Why give me this, then?" 

"Mm, I wonder."

Lied rubbed the back of his neck. Another trait shared with Ryner Lute? Miran had no way of knowing, and asking his Majesty would be… unwise. Such was the nature of the beast, these days. 

"...Well, I'm sure you can find another use for it," Lied said. "Names are something like a currency, down here. Lieutolus are even better."

"You sound familiar with this."

"Well, yeah, they're not like Erises. Erises are a soul a dozen. Even if I did give you their names, it'd probably be useless…"

"One, then," Miran said. "A name you know to be useless."

Lied stared at him. "Lucile."

"What? That name is far from useless. It is the name of my mark, as you well know. He is an absurdly powerful man, who is capable of - "

"It was a joke. A joke," Lied said, but he looked a bit bemused. What was he thinking, Miran wondered, when he had said it? "But alright. Since I've wronged you just now, I'll give you a name. A slightly useful name."

"Then, Lucile - "

"Not his. But you should definitely seek out the owner of this name, all the same. Without a doubt, she'll be of use to your quest."

There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask. How would she be of use if Erises were 'a soul a dozen'. Was it an ancestor, perhaps, if she could somehow be of aid against a monster like Lucile. And yet, how would she be able to aid him if she likely could not leave hell. How. How.

But knowing Lucile Eris was more important. Knowing enough to kill Lucile Eris was more important.

"Her name," Miran said.

"Ephilia Eris," Lied answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate miran pov


	3. and cling to one last floating rib

For the first time in years, Lucile wakes.

The old clock over the fireplace says it is noon, but it could easily be broken. He’d been looking for a place that was quiet and didn’t reek too badly, and had been pleasantly surprised to discover that the rooms he purchased came with furniture. At the time Lucile had felt rather pleased, although the landlord had insisted on a ‘quick dusting’ before allowing him in. He had been sitting in the parlor for… well. An awfully long time, probably? He could notice time far better than before, but after so many years without it… haha.

Still. If the way the landlord acted was any indication, then who knew how long it had been since someone had stayed in these rooms? Yes, how long had it been since someone had covered up the chairs and tables with those strangely stained sheets? The clock was far more likely to be broken. He refused to sleep in until noon…

Lucile pulled open the curtains and peered out into the dark. He couldn’t make out the streetclock from here. Between that and the lack of sun, if he wanted to check the time he’d have to actually venture outside, and if the clock was broken after all - well, the closest market was several streets away. 

...Perhaps he’d been too hasty in choosing this location after all. But it was fine. It wasn’t like he had a need for time. Not when he was alone.

Oh, to want without need. To hear the seconds tick by. To feel a hunger that moaned, but didn’t scream, for him to eat. To see less, and to see it less clearly. To sleep a dreaming sleep. To be human, even in this place where no one could truly die. Even if he did not need any of it, it could still have been nice. He could have looked forward to learning the rest of his new limitations.

He could have looked forward to it if he did not have to learn them alone.

Lucile was no longer bound to the heart of the manor, but neither was anyone else. Rather, no one else had been bound to it in the first place. There was never a reason for his sisters to stay when it was dragged underground… yes, there was never a reason for them to stay before, either. If they truly wanted to leave. 

And this time they had, hadn’t they. He isn't sorry he warned Ferris, of course, but if he'd known she would also take Iris and her companions… if he'd known she distrusted him to this point, then…?

Lucile rather doubts that Ferris can look after all of them while also keeping herself safe. Looking after the Demon's other half is already a challenging enough task by itself, but maybe the descent of a thousand angry, starving gods will finally be enough for him to wake up. And then again Lieral is -

He doesn't want him anywhere near his sister. He doesn't want him anywhere near either of his sisters, or another child with the Alpha Stigma, or a peasant girl who has already proven to be such an easy hostage.

Lucile isn't one for second-guessing, not even - or perhaps especially - when it comes to his sisters. But if he'd known. If he'd known Ferris would spirit the other three away - 

(He would have taken care of them. He  _ would have _ .)

The manor and its memories, for better or worse, all remain in Reylude. Somehow he still feels his new home in Latsel is even less good. It is quiet and cold and the cold bites to his marrow, his newly human marrow, and the entire place feels like a ghost. Like a ghost trapped in a room full of mirrors. Perhaps he is still the heart of the Eris manor. Perhaps it followed him here.

He knows he should not stay here. It will not do him any good. 

Lucile stays anyways.

-

His neighbors come knocking eventually, bringing fungal cookies and strange tins of powdered… something.

“It’s moth-tea,” one of the women titters. “Don’t ask what’s in it, of course!” 

Lucile hadn’t been planning on it. If it was something suitably disgusting then he’d just end up being sad that Lieral had stolen some of his nice, surface-sourced tea instead of choking on the taste of crushed moth-wings or whatever was in it. 

He doesn’t eat any of it but he sets it out in front of a mirror - the only remaining mirror, after he’d bundled up the rest and put them in a triple-bolted box - just in case Lieral comes back. Lucile’s not expecting him to, not for a good several months at the very least, but it’s better to be prepared. Also, he would like to see Lieral’s face if he actually tasted any of the food here. The best of it’s from the Visceral Sea, a bloody pool where Menoris’ heart should be. That isn’t saying much, though. The so-called skewers of seabeast one of his neighbors had offered him had just left him craving a rarer sort of meat.

Maybe it’s a good thing his sisters left. They’d hate the lack of sweets. Or perhaps they’d just find a way to make sea monster dango.

Lucile had been considering leaving a skewer out for Lieral, but he thinks he’ll finish it after all. Even being human now, there’s still an emptiness he can’t seem to fill. 

He thinks about his sisters in the darkness, here. Of how despite that the three of them had hair and eyes of the same color theirs still soaked in the light more than his ever did. 

Yes, it’s a good thing. 

-

There’s bites taken out of the crumpets.

It’s not like he needed to sleep anyways. He kneels before the mirror and waits. 

A week later, his neighbor knocks on the door again. “Not to pry,” she says, “but I haven’t seen you come or leave, have you had anything to eat, you’re far too thin…”

Lucile lets her foist a pan of something thick and stringy onto him. Lasagna, maybe? 

“Don’t be a stranger!” she says, when she finally leaves. He says goodbye but he doesn’t eat. 

In the morning, someone’s rearranged the cutlery.

-

_ Mirrors work strangely between the ribs of Menoris _ .

Lieral had said that there were vile creatures, the pets of the gods, that would travel between them. Lieral had also said they would have little interest in him or Reylude, because they liked the taste of dreams, because Lucile was functionally soulless, because the gods held distaste for demons, because because because - 

Whoever or whatever it is, it only comes when he sleeps. But he remembers all his new, ridiculous dreams. He remembers them vividly.

If it’s not something like a snake or a spider it should be Lieral again. Not even the gods could know why he’s choosing to mess with him now already, but Lucile’s always been unlucky. He sets a trap with wire and that lasagna-casserole monstrosity. He doesn’t expect to catch the man, of course not, but maybe it’ll at least ruin his suit.

In the morning the food is scraped neatly into the trash, the pan has been washed, the trap unset and the last of the crumpets have been eaten. 

It’s beginning to become a nuisance.

-

Another week or so passes by. There are oil stains and crumbs all along the bookshelf from where the intruder, previously assumed to be Lieral, has put their grubby fingers all over his reading material. 

Not Miran’s contract, of course. He sleeps with that tucked carefully in a pocket over his heart, and a coat on over it. Lucile would never expect to sleep through a home invader, it’s true, but he’s  _ certain _ he would wake up if someone tried to undress him.

...though Lieral could alter memories.

Still, he’s beginning to doubt that this is the Duke’s work. 

He brings out all of the mirrors from where they’d been packed away and, reconsidering, does not break them. 

It would be a waste. The intruder would probably just come in some other way. 

Lucile searches the house. Candles, curtain tassels, an assortment of trinkets he cannot identify but could still be of some value. He had not bothered with bringing along any items either to keep or to sell in Latsel - why go to that trouble when he could easily kill a man and take what he needed? Even without Eris’ ability it was simple enough to stay unseen. It was a bit unfortunate now, though. He’d have brought some trapping equipment along if he’d known he would be trying to catch something like a god.

He would have to leave the house to acquire what he needed.

He… gets lost as soon as he turns onto a new street.

Lucile had negotiated for several archives of research and records and  _ maps _ to be turned over to Reylude upon its sinking. He had not thought to negotiate for any of them for himself. Lieral had laughed at him and his naivety and dropped a few journals on his shelf but even he had not included any damned maps.

In his defense, sunken cities behaved strangely. It was entirely possible that the street his new home stood upon had truly gotten up and moved elsewhere, considering that Lucile had only gotten more lost when he attempted to turn back and make a strategic withdrawal to his uncomfortable, but at the very least recognizable, home.

And then there was a little hand in his pocket.

Lucile caught the little brat by the collar and lifted them easily into the air. This was made far too easy by how light they were. “Have you not learned to tell the difference between easy and difficult marks?”

The child  _ eep _ ed and held out their hands.

“I didn’t snag anything! See? I didn’t snag anything so you can’t call the guards! It’s all lies and slander!”

Lucile cocked his head. The child was dressed in oversized clothing, including a hat that hung oddly over one side of their head, somewhat like a mask. Between that, the grime, and the absolute rat’s nest of hair, it was difficult to make out their features...

“What if I am a guard,” Lucile said.

“Huh?! No way! A skinny priss like you - ”

“I did catch you,” Lucile reminded, and reached absently for their far-too-large coat. He rummaged through their pockets as they cursed and squirmed. “Hm. Did you steal these as well?” 

There was quite a collection. Nothing too impressive, but the loose handfuls of pearls and rust and little chips of jade… it would be more than enough to buy a child of this size many, many lunches. Perhaps even hot ones.

“I see you are… somewhat experienced,” Lucile allowed. He was being generous. Iris could steal far more in a matter of seconds and she always wore such bright colors. Even underground, whether it be in Reylude or Latsel, she would be able to nab several bulging satchels of pearls and she had never stolen anything other than the last skewer of dango before. Of course, she wasn’t here, but the point still stood. Lucile himself had absentmindedly picked up quite an assortment of trinkets the day he arrived, simply walking the path between the docks and his new address.

“You’re so rude, mister! I’ve been doing this for - "   
  
Please. This child -    
  
“ - centuries!”

Lucile pauses and gives the child another once-over. This is… just a child. It’s plain to see. It’s possible, he supposes, since time and death are so strange here, especially since that’s such an odd lie to tell. But in that case…

“Disappointing.”

It’s easy enough to shake the kid after that. The harder part is getting home.

-

...right, he never did buy what he was looking for, did he?

It takes Lucile another indescribable amount of time, several more failed traps, and many stolen meals before he ventures out again. In all honesty, if his neighbors hadn’t been so loud he probably wouldn’t have bothered for much longer.

He borrowed a map this time but still managed to get lost. However - 

Someone is following him.

It’s difficult to explain how he manages to notice it. Pure instinct, perhaps. There’s no odd footsteps or feeling of being watched. There’s no sounds that shouldn’t be there. But all the same, he is surely being followed.

It doesn’t really matter. This isn’t likely to be a threat to him, even if it is the same entity breaking and entering over and over, so there’s no need to double back or try and lure it out or anything like that.

...the only issue is that the streets don’t seem to understand that.

Lucile can’t possibly be getting this lost. He has a map right here and he’s certain that the map is changing in between glances. 

It’s quite a while before he’s certain, though - a street sign shimmers and twists right before his eyes and a wall emerges in the middle of the street.

This can’t be right. How can people live like this? When he looks to the map, the letters and lines are rearranging themselves.

Is this some sort of sabotage or interference? There wouldn’t be much point to maps if the city really shifted so often. 

But whoever has been shepherding him about like this really has gone to quite a bit of effort. So he turns around to face them, and…

...There’s a child hanging by their knees from the edge of a rooftop, peering at him with bright and stormy eyes. The storm is quite literal - there appear to be thunderclouds moving inside their irises.

He doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing particular to say. The child is snacking on a red fruit of some kind. They stay in silence like that until the child is satisfied and tosses the remains towards Lucile the way that a soldier might toss a grenade. He doesn’t dodge, of course not, but - a strange feeling traces up his spine and he almost wants to.

It hits the cobbles and rolls to his feet, perfectly formed despite the loud bites and thick juice that he had clearly just seen. When he picks it up it feels like cotton one moment and glass the next, and when he looks around again, the street is clear and the child is gone.

It rumbles in his palm like thunder in a globe. Can it be peeled? What if he attempts to take a bite? When he tries to dig his nails in, his nails chip. 

…

Lucile can’t think of any reason to keep it, but he can’t think of any reason to leave something so odd lying around. With his luck, it’s some sort of god’s organ or remnant of a rule fragment.

Bringing it home might just be handing it over to whoever it is that’s been breaking and entering night after night, though. 

Should he keep it with the contract for Miran’s soul? ...No, what if that drew the thief’s attention?

What a headache. What a nuisance. He’s never had to deal with a rule fragment before… but it’s probably fine if he stores it like he used to do with his swords, by cutting himself open and stitching it there for a time.

With that in mind, he heads home. The streets part for him easily enough now that the strange fruit is burning in his pocket. 

It seems he’ll have to stop by the library to try and identify it… what, is he becoming Sion’s pet or something? 

-

A week passes, and then two… or something like that.

The fruit is roiling in his stomach. His nightly intruder has not come once. 

In that case, isn’t it fine to leave it like that? Visiting the library is so very unappealing. If there’s no issue now, there’s no reason to deal with it.

With that in mind, he goes to adjust the mirrors. The only problem is - 

When he peers into the surface, Eris is gazing back. And winks.

Lucile tries to put his fist through the mirror. This is not literal, because he is trying to break it. However. However.

His fist really goes through the mirror, sinking into the cool surface. 

He yanks his hand back. It is covered in frost, and already he cannot feel his fingertips. His stomach, on the other hand, burns.

What on earth…?

On the other side of the mirror, Eris is laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter... its so much setup for fl lore things. i actually ended up splitting it in half bc the next part was so long and there wasnt any other good place to split it and i want my chapters to be like somewhat around the same length lol  
> in any case if u are intrigued i have succeeded, but this is really one of those things that is better upon reread ig... or at least that is the hope. lol


	4. if i shall fold open your sternum

As he ventures deeper into hell, Pochi and Kuro's shapes begin changing erratically. This happens without his command or consent, or, apparently, their own will. Miran discovers this when they merge into a magnificent two-headed bird to carry him across a ravine. As they are attempting their landing, however, they then shift into strange amphibious creatures instead. 

It is fortunate they were already close to the ground. It is also fortunate that the frog-like species rather resembled mushrooms, and thus cushioned his fall. Otherwise he would have broken far more than a single leg. 

Pochi squelches apologetically before becoming a snake to coil around his leg and act as a brace. Kuro becomes a goat and Miran grips his horn as if it were the head of a walking stick. Their sheer determination seems to make this shift more stable, but they still transform occasionally and more than once Miran finds himself suddenly gripping a slimy toad’s eye (one of very, very many) or with a monkey clinging to his ankle. 

It is… frustrating.

Frustrating enough that, upon reaching a pitch black river another four days in, he doesn’t hesitate to kneel for a sip. There is a part of him, stubborn and unreasonable, that still insists Lucile Eris may have provided faulty information. 

_ Lucile Eris has never played such games _ , he reasons.

_ Lucile Eris had also never shown an inclination for treachery _ , he argues back. 

No facet of him is willing to concede on this matter, but at the very least he can say wholeheartedly that the water tastes disgusting. It burns going down and leaves the scent of brimstone and rot on his skin. But in the end it is worth it. Lucile Eris could, in this, be trusted; his limb is healed by the day’s end.

He follows the river upstream. Even in hell, some rules of civilization should still apply. The most-probably-demonic Lied had also needed to drink. 

The next settlement has a bright, lopsided sign just above the door. Looking at the peeling paint and the oddly sharp edges, Miran is uncertain if it is meant to be an actual sign or just a guillotine of some sort for the travellers. There is another sign just past the door that declares the premise to be a gambling den. It certainly reeks as much as one would expect, but there are no cards or dice in sight. He asks what it is they gamble and how it is they do it. He asks directions and rumors and the name 'Lied'. 

"You can wager the answers here, on a game of eyes and dreams," a devil tells him, teeth glinting. "Care for a touch of sleep? You look like you’d have something good to harvest. Maybe a proper nightmare, even."

Miran glances towards the back of the room, where a goat...man… thing is dragging softly snoring bodies out a dark and faintly smoking door. 

"Well,” he considers, “perhaps I might - "

"No, thank you," a hand clamps down on his shoulder, and Miran jolts with recognition both from the touch and the false pleasantry of the interrupting voice. "I'm afraid he's with me, sorry!"

"Suit yourself," the devil says, showing a snake for a tongue when it makes a childish face at the both of them. "But there's always time for another offer later."

"And you'll get the same answer then," the proxy to Menoris answers, tight but smiling. "Now, why don't we have a little chat?"

Miran has little respect for deities, but he is not so foolish as to refuse a god.

"Naturally." 

Menoris does not look at him once when leading him through that same smoky door. Unlike what he would have expected, it does not lead to any means of disposal. There are simply piles of bodies in some form of deep, deep sleep.

Could they not become witnesses? The devil at the counter did say something about harvesting dreams.

“What has happened here?”

“Dream-harvesting,” the proxy says shortly. “Devils take out the nightmares and turn them into candy. Then there’s nothing. You wanna try it?”

“If a specific memory could be targeted - ”

“Ew, you’d trust a devil with that kind of thing?” he wrinkles his nose. “It wasn’t an actual question, dummy! Nothing left means nothing left, seriously.”

If he handed Lucile Eris over to such an establishment… oh, but it might be difficult to bring him all this way. “Is this common?”

The proxy is going through pockets. “In hell? Sure. Definitely. Biggest ring is in one of the cities, though. Not sure which, I don’t keep track of that kind of thing.”

From what Miran has read, there are no cities in which the sale of demonic produce is permitted. Perhaps the fruit of this dream-harvesting is considered a device, or perhaps the act itself is marketed as a service. The most obvious assumption is that it is an illegal operation, but…

This is not Roland. This is not even Menoris - not really. Miran is a long, long way from home.

But all the same, Menoris is…

He glances to his companion. How must it feel to have a proxy between your ribs? No, how must it feel to live within the carcass of someone who shaped you, as good as created you… if he himself were to walk within the ventricles of the late Marquess's heart - 

The proxy pinches his wrist and shoots him a glare. A warning. A glance around the room shows far too many demons eying them, only to flare their nostrils and turn away in disappointment now that his thoughts have dispelled.

"...I did not expect," Miran starts, then falters, and that is all the opening Menoris needs.

"You need to leave."

What? The insolence. As if Miran would obey any order not coming from his king. "I am in pursuit of the traitor Lucile Eris. I shall not -"

"Then go after him, you should know he's in Latsel," Menoris says, frowning. Has he deduced, already, the true reason Miran is scouring Hell? What involvement might Menoris have with this Ephilia Eris? Then again, after the debacle he nearly made just now, it's understandable - or did Miran just create a convenient excuse for Menoris to exploit? "You need to leave."

Miran will not be deterred. "As I recall, Lucile Eris possesses the soul of the Devil, the enemy of divinity. You as well should benefit from - "

"Are you stupid? I just said he's in Latsel," Menoris snaps. "That aside the Hero and Devil hold their quarrel with the goddesses, it's got nothing to do with me! Nothing!"

...this proxy is rather childish in comparison to his aboveground counterparts. He is aware that the god’s proxies differ, having the tendency to take on traits of the land they are spawned from; the one he met in Remulus was certainly more playful than the spiteful one from Iyet. Perhaps this impulsive, erratic behavior is a consequence of residing in Hell. Miran opts for a different approach. Lucile's youngest sister had liked sweets, hadn't she? That and Pochi, most of all when he had taken the form of a cat - 

“ _ Ainelle Miran _ ." His voice is resonant, thrumming and piercing at the same time. When the gods speak, it always gives him a headache. "Pick up your ass and get out of hell."

...between the tiny limbs and the puffed cheeks, Miran is certain that Menoris poses no threat to him here. If an older and more capable self is waiting beyond the gates to Latsel that is another thing, but somehow he doubts the god has such a long memory.

"I have…" he should have packed sweets. 

"Ten days to get out of my territory is what you have," Menoris mocks, but before he can march away on those very little legs Miran realizes what he is dealing with. A child. he is dealing with a child, and more than that -

He reaches out and grabs the back of the little brat’s collar.

"No," Miran says. "I have no intention to leave. Not without answers, you see. Now. Let us introduce ourselves properly.”

-

The child that resembles Menoris so greatly is currently dangling by his shirt from Pochi’s maw. He has his arms crossed in a truly petulant manner and an equally petulant expression on his face.

“Will you not speak? O false Menoris.”

“Oh shut up,” the child sneers, and kicks ineffectively. He swings back and forth this way and Miran gives a discreet signal to his dog, who starts drooling rather… aggressively. The child yelps and stops kicking, presumably because some of Pochi’s saliva touched his skin.

It is merely shadow, though. He will have it dissipate as soon as he obtains the answers he desires.

“You cannot deceive me,” Miran says, though admittedly it took him some time to realize the truth. “I have encountered one of his many proxies aboveground, previous to Reylude’s sinking. Our exchange was certainly memorable, though perhaps not to him so much as me, seeing as he is a god while I am a mere mortal game piece, but - ”

“Y’know, that’s not really convincing!” 

“ - regardless, I am well equipped, I believe, to identify his other brethren. While you do resemble him greatly,” being near identical, if a bit more diminutive - which could be easily attributed to their location being underground and Menoris having reduced power here, “You have failed to emulate his mannerisms appropriately - ”

“Shut up shut up shut up, all the proxies talk different anyways! This is just Hell’s influence! There’s no way, what do you think you’re getting out of this anyways? Accusing a god of lying, you should go aboveground and try that trick again there!”

Miran makes the signal again. 

“Iyaaaagh it’s slimy!”

“If it is so unpleasant, o divine being,” Miran says, “then perhaps you ought to utilize your abilities and escape the grip of my familiar, this mere shadow beast… indeed, was it not one of your kind that created this ring?”

“It’s Hell’s influence,” the child whines. “You  _ know _ this is Aslude and Ryner’s domain, right? You definitely know! You’re an insufferable  _ nerd _ , you  _ know _ the legends you have to you  _ have to! _ ”

Miran nods. “Indeed, I am aware. However this does not change the fact that you are no proxy of Menoris, merely an impostor, and I would like to understand who you truly are and what you seek to gain by impersonating him in this way…”

The child scrunches his face up. It is redder now, which looks awful considering the coloring of his hair and clothing, and that aside he looks torn between screaming and crying. Is Pochi’s drool truly so unpleasant? Miran found it endearing whenever one of his familiars panted on him happily, leaving trails of liquid shadow… although admittedly it was rather sticky.

“My familiars are beasts of shadow,” Miran starts, and the impostor really  _ does _ start crying. 

“Just, just, how the hell did you find out anyways, what the hell, is this okayyy, it feels so gross… is their drool poisonous?! Is that what you were about to say… auuugh, I don’t want to get drooled to death, just tell me how you found out and I’ll explain everythinggg…”

Miran was actually about to explain that the saliva was not, in fact, actual saliva, and that he could easily cause it to vanish as soon as the impostor decided to cooperate. But this assumption is not bad, either.

“You referred to me by my true name,” Miran said. “Even if angered, Menoris would have called me Froaude, or at the very least referred to me by ‘Miran’ alone to conceal the fact that Hell had such a strong influence on him, if indeed it could compel even a god to - ”

“Augh! You guys are like that? Something as stupid as this pet-namey bullshit is what does me in?!”

...he hadn’t even finished explaining.

-

"Why are you here?"

“...on behalf of a god.”

"And why take on the face of Menoris?"

“...on behalf of a god.”

"Would that not be rather insulting, especially between his very ribs?"

“I’m not giving you the crash course on godly politics.”

"Why not?"

“Because it’s a huge waste of time and you should do your own work instead of bullying rookie spies like me into handing over important secrets?”

"Pochi."

“That’s not going to work agaIYAAGH!”

-

The number of answers he receives is far from satisfactory, but he does learn. Secrets, implications, all sorts of things. “Harmless things, things everyone who’s anyone already knows,” the false Menoris had said, most likely to try and insult him, but to Miran who was merely human it was more than enough. Not for his own sake, of course, but his Majesty would be able to piece it together. His Majesty was far more than human, harboring the soul of an ancient being and then becoming immortal in his own right, even if through the deception of another… 

“It’s always a tragedy when a god takes a lover,” the impostor says, giving him a strange look. “So don’t get any ideas.”

Miran hadn’t been.

Still. “One last question,” Miran says, and the false Menoris groans. “It is a simple question, I assure you,” he promises. This does not seem to make the impostor feel any better.

“Sure. Shoot.”

“Do you know where I might seek out the one known as Ephilia Eris?”

He nearly topples over from his chair. Quite a feat, considering that it is taller than him, and likely weighs more as well. “Huh? You could ask anything - not that I’d answer for sure, mind you - and you’re asking after an  _ Eris _ ?”

Indeed. Even if he could not answer the majority of Miran’s inquiries, at the very least they should both expect Miran to make an attempt anyways, if only to try and glean something from the refusals. And yet he had wasted enough time already in this little gambling den. Enough time for Lucile Eris to… 

Time worked differently in Hell, however. How many days had Lucile Eris breathed peacefully? How many weeks or months could Miran’s time in Hell warp into?

“...I have an urgent task,” Miran said, and the impostor started laughing.

“Urgent enough to make you shut up! Amazing, truly amazing,” and there was a glimmer of true satisfaction in his eyes… how infuriating. There should be no satisfaction known to any living being until the traitor Lucile Eris was bleeding, bleeding for the first time in decades by his hand. 

“Ephilia Eris. Well. Well, well,” the impostor said, and stretched. His little arms barely reached over the top of the chair, and his feet did not even touch the ground. That Miran had allowed himself to be delayed by such a small, petty existence was truly shameful. And the idea that he might end up reporting such a shameful occurence to his Majesty...

If this panned out and he found Ephilia Eris and she gave him Lucile’s true name, if he was able to strip Lucile of all his power, if he could kill Lucile and walk away… if he could kill Lucile Eris and walk away.

If he could kill Lucile Eris and walk away, then… no, it was still beyond his imagination. Considering this it really became obvious, didn’t it? If he were a better servant he would have just continued on his route to Latsel rather than making such a hopeless detour on the half-formed advice of a stranger. 

“You looked really far away for a bit there,” the impostor jeered. “Thinking of something special? Or I guess I should say someone?”

“Yes,” Miran said, unsurprised by this alleged spy’s perception, but slightly surprised that his murderous intent had been enough to show on his face. He schooled it into a more appropriate expression. “At any rate I must certainly seek out this particular Eris, in order to obtain information of my target’s weakness… your earlier dawdling suggests you know something of her whereabouts. Will you not tell me?”

“Er, well,” the impostor says, fumbling. “It’s not that I don’t  _ want _ to tell you or anything, but there are other gods down here, you know?”

Miran does not see the relevance.

“I’m just saying,” he continues. “Like… one of them runs a prison, alright? It’s in the middle of the sea and it takes all sorts of prisoners. Even from hell. The hunters that work there are serious business, you don’t want to get tangled up with them. Really. Also even if you wanted no ship is going to take you there!”

That last sentence is rushed out. Miran frowns. “How, then, do the hunters deliver their prey to the prison?” he asks. “Certainly there must at least be supplies delivered and records retrieved? Unless you mean to say that all employed by the prison are capable of teleporting?”

“Um, you know what, I don't know. I don't know anything. If you're planning a prison break there of all places, I don't want to hear about any of it."

"A prison break, you say." Perhaps this entity is really as young as it looks. How foolish and naive, Miran wants to crow. How childish. "So Ephilia Eris is a prisoner there, then? Under a god's thumb?"

He makes a face. "Sure, just go with that. But let me tell you, you're not going to find her there! The chances are smaller than you managing to kill that guy, or you ever returning to the surface!"

"So a guarantee, then."

Sooner or later is the same as a promise. Sooner or later, then -

He will find Ephilia Eris, and he will have her son's head.

**Author's Note:**

> ok as a prologue it is a bit jumbly. i promise the actual story will be more coherent. i need to practice writing actual cohesive storylines instead of scenes strung together as a oneshot anyways.  
> [points at fallen london] lore good. love that lore. if u like dyd fallen london lore is probably right up your alleyway anyways with lots of cannibalism mythology and eldritch war bullshit. ty for coming to my tedtalk  
> miraluci is the best and most overlooked denyuuden ship idk why everyone is so blind


End file.
